Heartless
by redrosemary
Summary: Warden Lucilla Cousland pondered over her options with the possessed Guerrin boy. Ultimately, of course she saved him, to curry favor with his very important father. Or at least, Alistair initially thought so, because who would ever have thought that she had a heart?


"Options. Now."

Warden Lucilla was out of her element, and she knew it. The boy Connor was possessed, and had caused such tragic damage to Redcliffe through reckless use of magic. And Lucilla knew next to nothing about magic.

But she knew a thing or two about leadership, and she quickly gathered the three persons she could trust most on the matter. Her fourth counselor was missing, but she could not afford to wait for him. Thus, she led her party to the Arl's study—the one place she thought afforded them the most privacy, the best place to make her decision. She took one last look at the empty hallway before she closed the door to hear her counselors' suggestions.

Wynne and Morrigan were mages, and they were obvious choices to offer her counsel in this dark time. As was Alistair, who was trained as a Templar. Lucilla knew that kindhearted Leliana would hesitate in such a hard decision, a hesitation which could cost all their lives, so she ordered the priestess to stay by Isolde's side and coax any useful information from the Arlessa. Sten would at a heartbeat take the boy's life, never realizing any consequence to such a rash act, so she sent Sten to patrol the area with the knights of Redcliffe.

The young noblewoman first glanced at the witch Morrigan, who spoke lazily. "Like I said before, killing the boy is the easiest option, but not the only one. The boy gave himself freely to the demon, and retains his mind, when the demon is not so inclined to possess him. Killing him will stop the demon from going to the physical realm. But killing the demon in its realm in the Fade will free the boy forever from it."

"And how do we enter the Fade?" Lucilla asked. "Wynne? I understand that mages enter the Fade during the Harrowing. Can you replicate this for Connor?"

The older mage looked thoughtful, but spoke briskly. "Yes, with enough mages and lyrium—maybe three or four mages with eight ounces of lyrium. A fifth mage could enter the Fade."

Morrigan, however, scoffed. "Warden, you would be a fool not to consider the blood mage's proposition. Two mages will be sufficient for this—the mage who casts the spell, and the mage who enters the Fade. The boy's mother has already agreed to provide her life for the ritual—"

"You can't seriously consider this, Lucilla!" Alistair interjected, disgust in his voice. "Blood magic. All of this began with blood magic. You have two real choices here—not including buying Connor's life with the Arlessa's."

Lucilla raised her hand to hush Alistair. "Your objection is noted, Alistair. But I need to know all my—our—options." But she turned to Alistair almost tenderly, knowing this would make him more pliant. "You were trained as a Templar. What do you think?"

Alistair blushed for the briefest moment. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Normally, I would not suggest the killing of a child—"

"Which is why we are having this discussion," Lucilla answered, kindness and firm resolve twined in her voice. "But anything that needs to be done, needs to be done swiftly."

The young noblewoman looked at the mages again. "If I send you to the Fade, will I be assured that you will survive? That you will not be adversely affected?"

Morrigan rolled her eyes. "'Tis not my first venture in the Fade, Warden, nor the first demon I have encountered."

"Nor mine, Warden," Wynne answered patiently. "But I do agree with Alistair, we don't need blood magic. The Tower is two days away from here by boat, a day and a half if we use haste. I guarantee that much."

Lucilla made her calculations. At least three days… could she could risk it? She had no doubt she could bend the remnants of the Circle and the Templars to her will. They all owed her their lives, anyway. Besides, she could always use the Warden treaties to compel them to obey. Yes… she was sure the Knight Commander and the First Enchanter would not give her any trouble.

Their meeting was interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Apologies, my lady," a knight said wearily, "but… the blood mage is gone. He is not in his cell, but we will search high and low for him."

"Gone?" Lucilla said incredulously. "Have I not made it clear that no action is to be taken—"

Lucilla acted as if the news was a blow to her, but it was not. She eradicated the choice of blood magic—she immensely distrusted the haggard mage who claimed to have dabbled in the dark arts. If she had taken that choice, not only would she lose Isolde's life, but also gambled on Connor's, Eamon's, and the mage she would be sending to the Fade. She was not yet that desperate to take such a foolish risk upon the word of a barely skilled mage.

"Apologies again, my lady, but with our forces spread thin," the knight said, his voice suspiciously high pitched. "My lady. We vow to exercise our best efforts."

Lucilla gave an audible sigh. "Never mind that, Ser Knight, just… continue guarding the Arl's family for now. That your paramount concern. Let the Chantry decide what to do with the mage."

"Yes, my lady."

The knight gave a small bow and left, but barely after shutting the door, it creaked open again.

"My lovelies," Zevran greeted them in his smooth Antivan tongue. "Warden Lucilla. Warden Alistair. You sent for me?"

"You're late," Lucilla said, trying to sound stern. She had to put up appearances, after all, even as the elf gave her a smirk. "Take your place beside Alistair."

Zevran was Lucilla's henchman, and he knew more of poisons and their antidotes than all of her other companions combined. Her favorite assassin knew the perfect moment to strike, but more importantly, when not to strike. Zevran was late for a reason, but she was not comfortable sharing it with the others. She sighed, wishing Zevran had entered sooner. Thankfully, her other companions did not mind Zevran being late at all.

"If we kill the boy or the demon inside him, and the demon is all that keeps Eamon alive, will killing either kill Eamon as well?" Lucilla demanded from the two mages.

"Not necessarily," Wynne explained. "Spells are not necessarily tied to the lives of their caster, but in time, they weaken. If we kill the demon, its spell remains, but for how long, I cannot say. Not without seeing him first."

"Will you know what poison was used, Zevran, if you saw the Arl?" Lucilla asked, knowing his likely answer. But she had to ask, anyway.

"It really depends, my dear Warden," the elf spoke. "I might be able to determine what are the likely candidates for the poison, and if it was merely to debilitate him or to finish him off entirely. And if we find the bottle that once held the poison, I can be more accurate."

But seeing Eamon right now was not their option, Lucilla thought disdainfully. No. This would be for another time.

"How about the boy? Will I be risking the safety of the village if we left for three or four days?" Lucilla demanded from the others. "Alistair. Can you contain him with your abilities?"

"I suppose," Alistair answered timidly. "But not for long. I am not a fully trained Templar."

"We still have four flasks of concentrated magebanes, Warden," Zevran interjected. "I can make seven more within the day."

"Do it," Lucilla told Zevran, and she turned to the others. "Alistair, Morrigan and Zevran, you three will contain Connor, with what skills you have. Contain him, drain him of all energy and magic, sedate and paralyze him if you need to, until I return. But keep him alive as long as you can."

"Such a bother," Morrigan answered languidly, "but yes, I can do that, even without the Templar's or the assassin's help."

"No. You three will work together on this," Lucilla said, steel in her voice as she looked the three of them in the eye, and they acquiesced to her. "All of you, listen. I do not want the Arl's son killed, and I am going on lengths to keep him alive. The Arl is an important man, and we would do well to remain in his good graces. But at the first sign of danger, should the demon take over him, you are to end that threat one way or another."

The leader turned to Wynne. "Are you absolutely sure we can go to the Tower and back here in three days or less?"

The older mage nodded.

"Then it is agreed. Wynne and I will travel to the Circle, and I'll take Leliana with us," Lucilla declared. "Alistair, you are in charge here, until I return. You will keep watch over the boy and slay him if it is your opinion as Templar that he becomes a danger again. Morrigan and Zevran will assist you to placate him, with any means possible. Zevran, I trust that you will also keep an eye on our large Qunari friend, see to it that he does not do anything… stupid."

All of them agreed. Good, Lucilla thought. I might just be able to pull this off.

"Then summon our companions, Teagan, Isolde, and the remaining knights."

* * *

Alistair sighed a breath of relief—the biggest relief he had. Connor had been freed from the demon. He had gripped his sword throughout the entire ritual, ready to defend from any untoward consequence, but praying that none ever take place. That particular prayer was answered.

The stench of burnt lyrium still clung to his nostrils, and he suspected that the purple and blue stains on the stone floors and walls would not be easily cleaned, but at least, the ritual worked. Morrigan was resting, no doubt exhausted from her trip to the Fade, despite her pretensions to the contrary. Wynne and the other Circle mages were tending to the boy Connor, perhaps making arrangements for him. He wondered what the Templars would do to the boy who had caused so much magical havoc in the village, until he saw Lucilla and Teagan speak to the mages' templar guards. No doubt, they would try to arrange that Connor would be received as if none of this had ever happened. And knowing Lucilla… yes. Connor would not be treated any differently from a mage-child that had set a barn on fire.

Connor's off to the Circle then, but what a pity he would find it in shambles.

Despite all of these, Alistair was glad. He realized, as Isolde planted kisses on her only son's face, oblivious to all others tending to Connor, the immense parental love that led her to such terrible choices. That even if Connor would be taken to the Circle, he had still known the love of a family who went to all ends to protect him.

Was that what a parent was willing to do for their child, if they loved and wanted their child?

He found himself walking out, a strange mix of envy, relief and gratitude welling up on him. His footsteps echoed in the stone halls, and he felt more alone than ever. He had known this place as a child, where he was unwanted and little more than a nuisance; but even then, he was grateful, because he knew he was luckier than most bastards or orphans. And he was no less grateful to Eamon now, as a man, and he was glad that he could return this one kindness to his family.

He soon heard another's footsteps. Staccato, he realized. The clack of heels attached to shoes no Ferelden would ever wear. And they seemed to be in a hurry.

Alistair turned and saw Arlessa Isolde approaching him, almost at a run. Alistair paused, but did not walk towards the older woman. As she advanced, he could hear her pant, and he could not help but wonder what urgent matter she had to convey to him herself. When she reached him, she extended her arms, wanting to rely on him as she tried to regain her composure.

"Thank you, Alistair," Isolde said, still not quite having caught her breath. She was looking at the floor, and not in his eyes, and whether this was because she was still overexerted, he was not sure.

"You are a Templar, sworn to the service of Holy Andraste," Isolde continued, and this time, she looked up to him. "But you stayed your blade. You considered… you convinced your leader to consider other options. You made Lady Cousland listen. I can never thank you enough."

Alistair had never realized what a small woman Arlessa Isolde was. Her mind was still sharp—but this time, she was no longer accusing him unjustly.

"The Wardens always do the right thing, Warden Lucilla and myself especially," Alistair said automatically, unsure of how to take Isolde's gratefulness. He had spent a lifetime receiving nothing but her scorn.

"You have grown to quite the man," Isolde admitted. "A formidable warrior, one with a conscience and a heart. Someone Connor could look up to. Eamon would be so proud."

"I didn't do much to save Connor, Your Grace," Alistair said. "Warden Lucilla decided on the best course of action after exploring all our options. And the Circle performed the ritual."

"They had their parts to play," Isolde mused. "But you, most of all. I do not know how to extend my gratefulness to you all for saving my baby boy. Alistair, to you I need to extend more than my thanks. I must also offer you my apologies."

Alistair did not know what to answer the Arlessa with.

The young man found rest elusive that night; it felt so strange to sleep in the guest wing of Redcliffe Castle, not its stables or servant quarters. He decided to take a long walk in the castle instead, reminiscing of what joys he had found there as a child. The familiar tapestries of the Guerrin warriors and their hounds, but somehow they seemed smaller and more faded now. The suits of armor that he once cleaned as a child still lay in shambles upon the floor, after their recent skirmish. His favorite mabari statue which he imagined as a retired warrior with many tales of battle to tell, was now chipped and bloodstained, no doubt because of the recent battles the castle had seen.

Alistair grappled with his emotions about Eamon. When he left Redcliffe at twelve years old, he was angry. Eamon was the only father he had known, after all, and he had sent him away. But later, at the monastery, Alistair came to realize Eamon did not have to raise him; the man did not have a duty to him. When Alistair left the Templars, Alistair had resolved to meet Eamon, to thank him personally for all his kindness. Life as a Warden, however, did not bring him to Redcliffe. Until now, and what cruel fate was his to find Eamon at his sickbed.

His feet led him to Eamon's study, and he was surprised that the torches were lit. From afar, he could make out a figure sitting behind the desk, poring through papers, reading by lamplight.

For the briefest moment, he thought that Eamon had finally arisen. Until he got closer, and saw that the figure behind the desk had a head of black hair, not grey, and a face so young and fair, not grizzled and lined.

Of course. She would not pass on the chance to peruse such a treasure trove as the Arl of Redcliffe's private documents.

Warden Lucilla in her natural habitat was a sight to behold, a true Fereldan noblewoman, complete with her own warhound at her feet. She had bathed and changed; he knew she could not resist the offer of the old luxuries she had grown up with. Instead of her scale armor—what she she came to Ostagar with—she was wearing a rich dark gown. One of Isolde's, perhaps, but it suited her well. Her hair was loosely braided and tucked behind her ear. Her fingers, long and graceful, caressed some line of text she was so interested in reading.

Alistair suddenly felt so self-conscious, clad in some old frayed shirt and trousers with too much mending. He suddenly wished that he bathed properly first bathed and worn better clothes, luxuries that came with the highest regards of the Arlessa of Redcliffe.

"Oh, good evening Alistair," Lucilla said by way of greeting, looking up from a stack of papers. She was smiling at him. She did not seem to mind his almost threadbare attire. "I wanted to send for you earlier. I found something here that might interest you."

She beckoned him to approach, and wordlessly, put in his hand a small clay amulet.

An amulet that he distinctly remembered to have smashed against the wall as he uttered an ingrate's words against the man who raised him.

Alistair could not help but wrap his arms around Lucilla, the woman to whom he owed Eamon's family's life to. And now, the woman who had returned this thing to him.

There were a thousand words he wanted to tell her, all of gratefulness and appreciation for saving Eamon's family, for being wise, for simply being there when he needed her.

"Thank you," he whispered to her, and he kissed her hair.

* * *

Lucilla returned Alistair's embrace, her arms strong and sure. She had almost forgotten this kind of affection: the embrace and the kiss of a brother who sighed in relief when a huge problem was solved or avoided with her help.

It did not help that Alistair was of the same build as Fergus.

"Did you truly think me heartless as to kill a boy over the tears of his mother?"

Her voice was soft, and it was probably the first time she spoke to Alistair in such a tone. She was a strong leader and an even stronger woman, but tonight, in this castle that was so like home but so unlike home, it was so hard. Almost impossible.

"Did I ever tell you that my mother gave her life for me?" she asked Alistair, her voice barely a whisper. "Not in the way Isolde would have given hers for Connor. But my mother also saved me."

A single tear escaped from her left eye. She knew showing weakness to Alistair was irresponsible—the boy looked to her as a leader. But she could not help it.

"Castle Cousland is almost like this, but better," Lucilla confided. "Old stone halls. Mabari tapestries. Hardwood furniture. A library with so many books, a shrine to Holy Andraste. Suits of armor throughout the ages, worn by generations of Couslands to defend our homeland."

She remembered how Bann Teagan had greeted her when they met in the Chantry. Lady Lucilla Cousland of Highever, he addressed her. Not Warden—the title that she was now called—but Lady Lucilla, as befitted a nobleman who had once courted her, in her past life as the daughter of a Teyrn. The others addressed her as Lady Cousland, as if she were simply paying Arlessa Isolde a little friendly visit. Lucilla was a lady again, and she was wearing a fine dress as she walked in an old Fereldan castle. As if she had never been forced to this hard life by a haggard man who stole her from her dying parents' side. As if she were merely sent by her father here to discuss some matter of governance or trade with the Guerrins.

"Do you want to talk about it, my lady?" Alistair asked her jovially. This was why she liked Alistair. He was always so playful, so innocent in many ways, but he always understood how cruel life could be. "My lady needs her servant. I could be that for tonight."

"You're still royalty, my prince," Lucilla teased back, remembering what he had told her as they approached Redcliffe. "I'm not sure the daughter of the Teyrn of Highever could call King Maric's son her servant."

"What's a royal bastard to you, Luce, o trueborn daughter of Highever?" Alistair insisted, and Lucilla could not help but notice the fondness and endearment in his voice.

And the fact that he had just called her by the name the older servants and knights in Highever called her as a child.

"Tell me anything you like, Luce, my dear lady," Alistair repeated kindly, and he kissed her hand. "I am your servant."

Had any other person dared to call her that, she would have slapped them, put them in their rightful place. But not Alistair.

"I've never heard anyone call me Luce for the past ten years," she admitted. "But you, Alistair, you are always welcome to call me that."

Another tear fell, and then another, until it was an unstoppable stream from her eyes. She was home but not home, with a brother not her brother. She did not bother to wipe her tears—she never hid her tears from Fergus. Neither did Alistair seem to mind. Instead, he sat down on the armrest of her chair, and sandwiched her hands with his.

Alistair was such a dear ally to her. Her brother warden. Her most loyal, most steadfast companion.

She could not help but lean on his shoulder.

"I saved Connor because Isolde begged me to," Lucilla wept. "How could I ignore a mother begging me to save her son's life when my own mother gave hers for me? I could not do otherwise, not even if I risked an entire village for it. I am ashamed of this weakness, but I would do this all over again. I will save all children for their parents' sake, Alistair, all parents for their children's sake, as often as I could."

* * *

Lucilla was many things. She was strong, independent, cunning woman. She was deadly and fierce. She was always one step ahead of the others, many steps ahead of him most of the time. Alistair was always thankful for her strength. But until tonight, until she admitted her true motive in saving Connor… he never saw her as sentimental.

As a Warden, Alistair knew that many, if not most, of nobleborn Wardens were second sons not destined for an inheritance; they sought what glory as could be had, and hoped to find it in the Wardens. Lady Cousland, however, as she first arrived in Ostagar, was not one of them. He could immediately see in her eyes the moment he met her that some terrible fate had befallen her. Her words and actions at the time betrayed the fact that she did not desire her role one bit. But he did not ask her questions. At the time, he was still grieving his brother Wardens, and he had mistaken her sullen silences before the campfire as similar feelings.

Only, that instead of some bunch of soldiers she never truly knew, Lucilla was mourning her family.

That night in Redcliffe, as Alistair Theirin held her hands firmly, he learned how Lady Lucilla Cousland of Highever was betrayed alongside her entire House. How she awoke to the screams of her servants, and how she was too late to save her brother's wife and son. How the handful of forces sworn to her family forever gave their lives for her, and how she was forced to flee while her father bled to death and her mother bought her time to escape. How she both thanked and resented Duncan, who tore her from an ignoble death by her parents' side to live and do her duty to her family and her country. Of the terrible vengeance her father bid her fulfill, as if ending the Blight was not heavy enough.

For the first time, Alistair realized that when Lucilla screamed in her dreams, it was not just the Archdemon who haunted her.

"Luce, I never knew," Alistair said when Lucilla fell silent.

"You thought Zevran was merely late at the meeting?" Lucilla said softly. "I ordered him to get rid of the blood mage. So that Isolde would be rid of her foolish plan to sacrifice her life for her son, when there was no need to. When it could be avoided. And it was, thank the Maker."

Lucilla pulled something from inside her dark dress.

Her black dress, Alistair realized for the first time.

It was a long chain, and dangling from it was a heavy blue pendant, adorned with a laurel wreath trimmed with gold. She gestured him to look, and when she opened it so tenderly, he saw the portraits of the Teyrn and Teyrna of Highever. Her parents, whom she loved so deeply. Whom she mourned so secretly, and honored so deeply.

"Now you see, you're not the only one who received a necklace from their parent," Lucilla cajoled despite her sadness, referring to the amulet she had just gifted to Alistair. "Eamon has probably wanted to return that amulet to you, Alistair. Otherwise, why would he fix it? You probably matter to him more than you think you do."

Alistair could not help but laugh. "My dear Lady Luce, who would have known you to have a heart after all?"

"None but you, Ser Alistair," Lucilla answered, equally joyful and sad, as she returned her parents' locket inside her dress, keeping them hidden but so close to her heart.


End file.
